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She ran past Bennie’s Bagels and the Wash Tub Laundry, then turned down Lebeau Street. A few students were out strolling, but there was no sign of anybody painting murals. Maybe she was too early? Maybe Booker wasn’t working tonight? Feeling a little foolish, Theodosia doubled back to Glebe Street and headed down one of the dark alleys. She jogged behind a pizza parlor—she could tell by the aroma of cheese and sausage emanating from the half-open back door—and behind a Thai restaurant (spices perfumed the air here). Dumpsters sat in shadows and trash cans overflowed. At one point a striped cat strolled out from behind a stack of cardboard boxes and flicked its tail at her.
Earl Grey turned a baleful look on Theodosia, as if to say, It’s a cat. Could make for an exciting chase.
“Be good,” Theodosia told him. And as she continued down the alley, her eyes beginning to adjust to the intense darkness, she suddenly found what she was looking for.
Because up ahead was a large shadow. A man who, in profile, looked like he was big enough to be a professional wrestler, was dipping a paintbrush into a pail of paint, then applying it to the brick wall in front of him.
Is that you, Booker?
8
Her heart beating faster, Theodosia slowed to a walk. And crept closer until she could see what was going on. Yes, it was definitely someone painting a mural on the back of a building.
Feeling fairly brave now, Theodosia approached the man. As she drew closer she stepped into a small circle of light thrown by an overhead streetlight. Now she could see the design on the brick wall. It was a black-and-orange tiger, looking fierce as it curled around, trying to grab its own tail. It was surrounded by numbers, symbols, and a few crudely painted faces all showing bared teeth.
“I like your painting,” Theodosia said by way of an opening line. “It reminds me a little of Basquiat.”
Booker glanced over at her. “Basquiat was a tortured soul, I’m just a starving artist.”
“You’re one of Holly’s artists,” Theodosia said. “Right? You go by the name Booker?”
“Yeah,” Booker said as he shot her a sideways glance. His features were squared off and blunt, and he was linebacker big with wide shoulders, plenty of muscle, and dirty blond hair. His plaid work shirt was spattered with paint and there were drips and drabs on his jeans and motorcycle boots. Curiously, his voice was soft and slightly high-pitched. “You know Holly?”
“She’s a friend of mine.”
“That’s nice. And who are you?” Booker continued to paint.
“Theodosia Browning. I own the Indigo Tea Shop on Church Street. In fact, I’m the one who catered Holly’s tea party yesterday.”
“I read about that fiasco in the Post and Courier. Bunch of poison gas got sprayed all over Petigru Park.”
“I don’t believe they’ve determined the exact nature of the material.”
In the faint glow from the overhead sodium light, Booker turned and gave a mirthless grin. “It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
“That’s pretty harsh,” Theodosia said. “After all, the man was basically murdered in cold blood. So why would you even say that?”
Booker dipped a brush into a can of black paint that sat at his feet. Then he carefully outlined an image of a screaming head. “Probably because we have a history together.”
Theodosia’s internal radar started to ping. “Excuse me?”
She tried not to betray her excitement that Holly and Jeremy’s suspicion could have been right on. That this guy Booker might actually be a little crazy or maybe even a viable suspect.
“You said you have a history together. Care to elaborate on that?”
Booker finished outlining the head. Then he reached down and picked up a jean jacket that was lying on the ground and put it on. It was spattered with paint and looked like something Jackson Pollock might have created. Or even worn. Finally, he said, “Osgood Claxton was one of the proverbial fat cat politicos that helped run the City of Charleston. He held a lot of offices, sat on a lot of committees.”
“So I’ve heard,” Theodosia said, hoping to keep him rolling.
“One of the committees he served on was the Charleston Arts Board. Every year they award grants to deserving artists—fellowships, they call them. I applied for one of those grants three years running, completed all the paperwork, submitted photos of my work. But it was no dice. I’d come close, was actually a finalist once, but then I’d be told that my work wasn’t compatible with their stated mission or my paintings were too aggressive and in-your-face.”
“Okay.” Theodosia knew Booker was working up to something.
“Then last year I scored the golden ticket.”
“You got the grant,” Theodosia said.
Booker’s face turned dark. “For all of two minutes. There I was, floating on cloud nine, dreaming about not having to live hand to mouth for a while. Then, pop, my grant—my eighteen thousand dollars—was jerked clean away from me.” He turned toward her, lips curled back, teeth bared. “Care to guess who was responsible?”
